


Forget Me Not

by iamaplantiam



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Forgiveness, Jaskier is dead, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamaplantiam/pseuds/iamaplantiam
Summary: Jaskier watches as Geralt lives his life and accepts his destiny. Both come to terms with things they never thought they would have to.Heavily inspired by Elsa's song, by the Amazing Devil.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 144





	Forget Me Not

Before Jaskier even opened his eyes the smell of sulphur was burning his nose. He opened his eyes to the sight of a battlefield, the explosion of a fireball almost deafening him as it landed within a foot of where he was stood. He could feel the gust of air almost blow him back and the heat from the explosion wash over him, and yet there was no pain. He could spot the silver hair from across the burning field. Faint, fuzzy memories began to return to him as though he had just woken from a dream that he was remembering. He found himself making his way across the field towards the familiar man, Geralt, his name was Geralt. He walked over and around bodies as he made his way through the furrowed field, never once stumbling. The sheer amount of bodies and the way they laid reminded Jaskier of a field he had walked through once, a field filled with daffodils, snowdrops and forget-me-nots and the soft sunbeams warming his face. Instead it was bodies that filled his view, and the spreading flames that warmed his face and back.  
It was eerily quiet for a battle field, the roaring of the flames the most prominent sound in Jaskier’s still ringing ears, the faint falling of further fireballs breaking the constant static.  
A clear voice broke though the noise and seemed to rise above it, filling Jaskier’s ears.  
“Yennefer!” It was coming from Geralt, and though Jaskier couldn’t place who he was calling for the name felt like a punch to the stomach.  
Jaskier could tell the battle was over, though who fought and who won was a mystery to him.  
Geralt called again and Jaskier found himself covering his ears to block out the sound, images of a purple-eyed witch filling his head and making his chest feel heavy with a feeling of lose and grief, similar and yet so different from the emotions in Geralt’s voice.  
He could hear something else over the hum of the battlefield, but kept his hands pressed over his ears, so as not to hear it, unable to bear the pain in his chest any longer.

Jaskier found himself following Geralt’s footsteps once he realised the other was gone. He followed him all the way to the castle and back out into the woods. Helplessly watched as Geralt was attacked and fought through a mixture of poison and infection in the festering wound on his leg.  
Jaskier sat, with his knees pulled up to his chest watching over Geralt on the cart, wondering if the Witcher would meet the same fate he had.  
Jaskier had stitched the clues together, he was dead. How he had met that fate he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He wondered if he was cursed, it had been five years since Geralt had shouted at him atop that mountain and told him the best thing destiny could do was take him off his hands.  
Maybe this was destiny’s idea of a cruel joke, grant Geralt his wish and curse Jaskier with his. He reached out a hand and ran it over Geralt’s cheek, not that the other would’ve been able to feel it even if he were conscious.  
He watched as Geralt ran towards his destiny instead of away from it, a feeling of warmth filling his empty chest as he watched Geralt and Ciri unite, knowing that they would both be safe in each other’s care.  
He followed the pair from a short distance, noting when the weather began to warm and flowers began to form buds in the morning frost, eventually blooming into bright colours that Ciri would often point out to Geralt. He caught the way that Geralt’s face would shift when he caught sight of certain flowers, or when a certain scent floated past on a breeze.  
Jaskier was almost content as a silent witness until one morning he was perched on a nearby rock as Geralt was washing in the stream. The Witcher caught sight of a small yellow bloom amongst the moss and reached out to pluck it, looking at the dainty flower between his fingers. Jaskier saw his face shift to one of sadness, something that was rarer these days.  
As soft as the breeze carrying the scent of fresh air Jaskier heard his name whispered. He watched as the flower was tucked into a saddle bag as footsteps signalled Ciri’s arrival, eye’s catching the way Geralt’s hand moved to his eye as he turned back towards the running water, before splashing his face.  
He left for a while. He could never go far, but just far enough for the pair to be out of sight. Three moons passed before Jaskier found himself sat at camp, the first hint of sunrise visible over the canopy of the forest. The slumbering forms of Geralt and Ciri brought Jaskier some comfort. Geralt stirred and rose with the sun, the first rays of light hitting his back as he sat up on his bedroll.  
Jaskier watched as he stretched and stood up, facing towards Jaskier, and as though he was suddenly visible Geralt spoke, soft, barely above a whisper. “Good morning Jaskier.”  
Jaskier felt his lip quiver slightly, this must be some kind of sick joke he decided. To be cursed to watch his love continue to live his life, only to be receiving the attention he never got in person.  
Later that evening Jaskier was sat across from Geralt, chin resting in his hands, propped up on his knees. He was watching the other through the low flames of the fire he was stoking, Ciri asleep by his feet. Geralt had become more talkative with Ciri around, indulging the girl with actual conversation about seemingly anything that caught the girl’s attention.  
Even know Geralt was talking softly, whether it was to the sleeping girl, Roach or simply the night air Jaskier didn’t know, but the sound was comforting.  
“There is one thing I wish I could take back.” The Witcher said softly, and Jaskier recalled a conversation while Geralt had been setting up camp, Ciri had asked Geralt if he had any regrets. Geralt had told her that he had, but he wouldn’t take any of them back if he had the chance.  
“I’ve said lots of things in anger, some that I regret, but if I had the chance to take one thing back I know what it would be.” His eyes fell on Ciri’s sleeping form, and Jaskier knew that he was talking to her, despite her sleeping state.  
“I often curse destiny, as she always seems to find a way to stick to her true course, and it makes me wonder if she’ll ever bring him back to me.”  
He let out a small sigh and reached into the bag at his feet, pulling out a slightly crushed flower. A small yellow buttercup, the same one he had picked at the brook. He twirled the stem between his fingers.  
“I love him, I think I always have, I just didn’t know what love felt like.” He looked into the flames, unknowingly making eye contact with Jaskier.  
In the days that followed Geralt would swear that he could hear Jaskier on the breeze, a familiar tune in the sound of the morning chorus, a gentle melody in the trickling of a stream. He confessed his love many times in those days, always when he thought he was alone. Jaskier heard the words so often that they began to lose meaning, no longer cutting into his stomach like a knife or taking the air from his breathless chest. He told himself that Geralt must be wrong, that he didn’t know what love felt like, or had misremembered him altogether, forgotten how often Geralt had told him to go away, and complained about the constant noise he made. The biting comments about his ability to get himself into danger and his lack of skill of getting back out of it.  
During the late nights Geralt sat up, talking to himself Jaskier began replying. Answering questions Geralt had left to the wind, adding details the Witcher had forgotten. One quiet night Geralt was stirring the coals of the fire he had just put out when Jaskier found tears dripping from his eyes.  
“Please don’t forget me.” He said softly, repeating it again, louder this time. Once again he said the words, screaming them into the night in a desperate attempt for destiny to hear his prayers. Geralt made no movement at Jaskier’s disturbance and this just further broke his heart, to Geralt Jaskier was nothing but a fond memory, a feeling of nostalgia, a wondering in the night.

Years past, and Jaskier was still bound to Geralt, the passing time marked only by Ciri’s aging. He watched as she grew from a scared cub into a beautiful and powerful lion. The summer of Ciri’s eighteenth year Geralt left her at Kaer Morhen under the watchful eye of his own tutor.  
As they got close to Geralt’s destination Jaskier realised where they were headed, memories of the fateful encounter that Jaskier had tried to push from his head were at the forefront of his thoughts.  
Jaskier watched as Geralt stood at the edge of the cliff, sat on the same rock where he had asked Geralt to travel to the coast, staring into what could’ve been the same sunset.  
The clear voice rang through the night, much like it had on the battlefield the first day.  
“I loved him then,” Jaskier could hear the anguish in his voice, much different from the bitterness and anger that had been spat at him. “I love him still!”  
Jaskier’s tears joined Geralt’s on the ground, and for the first time since he had sat with Geralt in the cart Jaskier reached out for Geralt, his fingers brushing against the tear-stained cheeks.  
As Geralt lay on a bedroll under the star-filled sky Jaskier laid with him. Geralt didn’t sleep, instead gazing up at the constellations in a troubled silence, once stars were replaced with clouds Geralt rolled up his bed and headed back down the mountain.  
There was nothing Jaskier could do to stop him as he went from town to town, in tavern and inn asking about the bard that sang of the White Wolf, asking after Jaskier, who had been right beside him all these years.  
A whole winter passed before Geralt reached Oxenfurt. As they passed over the bridge and through the gate Jaskier felt uneasy, as though he shouldn’t be here.  
Geralt paid for a room in an inn and went evening fell and the tavern began to fill Geralt’s questions continued to be left unanswered. Until a man who sat in the corner of the room spoke up. “So you’re the Witcher Julian spoke so fondly of.” The man was aging, though years of labour had aged him beyond his years. “You have a lot to answer for, but if you are looking for him, I can take you to the place where you’ll find him.” Geralt sat down across from the man.  
“It is not somewhere to visit in the dark. Meet me here after the sun has risen and I will take you there.” Geralt nodded, accepting the offer before thanking the man and retiring to his room.  
Hazy images and thoughts filled Jaskier’s head as Geralt slept, but nothing he could pin down, just an overwhelming feeling of sadness and dread. When the sun began to rise and Geralt stirred Jaskier tried to think of ways to stop Geralt from meeting with the man in the tavern, but as he found himself stood over Geralt’s shoulder as they waited.  
“I’m almost surprised to see you, Witcher.” The man spoke as he entered the building, simply gesturing to the open door with his head. Geralt followed him out, and they walked in an uneasy silence. They were lead through the forest, into a small clearing that was beginning to disappear back into the forest. In the centre a small wooden cross stood. Geralt felt a small pat on his back before he was alone. He stood, transfixed for he didn’t know how long before he approached the plain grave, his fingers gently running over the top of the faded wood. He could faintly make out painted images of flowers and birds on the wood, faded from the passage of time. He couldn’t make out all of the words written, but his fingers found the imprint of the name carved there.  
“Oh Jaskier.” He said softly. “I’m sorry.” Jaskier had waited a lifetime to hear those words.  
“I forgive you.” Jaskier looked at Geralt in surprised when he turned and for the first time in a very long time and Geralt looked at him, probably looked at him. Jaskier saw the tears well up in his golden eyes.  
Jaskier looked the same as he had when he had left Geralt standing on the mountain, the same as in Geralt’s memories.  
Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulder and he could almost feel the weight of them, the warmth coming from under Jaskier’s doublet. The tickle of mousy brown hair as Jaskier’s head came to rest in the crook of Geralt’s neck.  
“I’ve been with you, since the day of the battle.” Geralt was silent, taking in the sound of Jaskier’s voice. “I think that’s the day I died.”  
Geralt pulled back, taking in Jaskier’s form, eye’s scanning him, trying to commit every part of him to memory.  
“All that time?” Jaskier nodded his head, a melancholic expression across his features.  
“I heard every word, watched as you searched, as you raised Ciri, accepting your destiny.” Jaskier’s hand came to rest on Geralt’s chin, Geralt was able to feel the chill.  
“At first I thought this was some kind of punishment, but, it let me be close to you for all that time; and for that I am grateful. I forgive you Geralt, I did a long time ago, long before you went back to that mountain top and cried into our painted sky.”  
Tears found themselves back upon Geralt’s cheeks, rolling under Jaskier’s hand.  
“I loved you Geralt, and I still do.” He hesitated, stroking his thumb up and down. “I want you to move on.” He leaned forward, pressing a soft, bittersweet kiss to his lips. Jaskier had come to that decision days into Geralt’s search, he would never be able to rest if Geralt didn’t let go.  
“Don’t forget me Geralt, but find new happiness, the world is so vast and so changing, so filled with bright new life and joy.”  
As the light faded from the clearing Geralt felt alone, yet he knew that Jaskier was still there. As he returned to the inn he decided that he at least owed Jaskier peace.  
So as he exited the witch’s house, a bundle of sage in hand and headed back through the clearing, his pack filled with flowers he spoke softly.  
As Jaskier listened to Geralt’s conversation with the kind old lady this morning he knew what Geralt’s plan was.  
He watched as Geralt lit the sage, letting the sweet-smelling smoke fill the clearing and coat them both.  
“Be free Jaskier, and thank you, for everything.”  
Jaskier found his vision fading as he watched Geralt lay the flowers around his grave, bright lilies and roses, buttercups and soft blue and purple forget-me-nots.

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea driving to work one day listening to Love Run, it was only going to be short but it kind of got away with me. It was cathartic to write this and I'm glad I got it out. Maybe enjoy is the wrong word, but thank you for reading!  
> I wrote this in one afternoon, and don't have a beta, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.


End file.
